Snow
by jazz9star
Summary: A young Ian makes a very special wish on the night before Christmas.


Title: SNOW

Author: Jazz9star

Rating: PG-13 (language)

Disclaimer: The characters in this story are the property of Top Cow and Warner Brothers. No infringement of their rights is intended.

Summary: A young Ian makes a very special wish on the night before Christmas. 

Notes: This story takes place between "Truce" and "Sunday". For those not familiar with the New York area, King Kullen is a Long Island based supermarket chain, and the primary source of the junk food that infiltrates Irons' mansion. For those who missed the British Invasion of the 1960's, Herman's Hermits was a band led by Peter Noone. 

SNOW

It was a morning in late December.

It was, in fact, December twenty-fourth.

Irons was examining a 12th century manuscript. It lay beneath a reading lamp on the library table, its case set to one side. Seated comfortably in one of the leather-backed chairs, Irons was turning the illuminated pages, his manicured hands moving in and out of the circle of light. He stood at Irons' elbow, his hands clasped firmly behind his back. He was forbidden to unclasp them while the manuscript was out of its case, lest he forget and touch its fragile pages. It wasn't fair. He had been very small before, and the book had been torn even before he had dropped it. But he was forced to adhere to Irons' dictum. As Irons discoursed on the history of the manuscript, he tried to pay attention, but his nose itched. Furtively, he compressed his neck in an effort to rub his nose against the shoulder of his stiff new suit.

"What are you doing?"

He snapped back to attention. "Trying to see better, sir." And scowled with what he hoped was academic intensity.

"I'm pleased to see your enthusiasm. It would please me even more to hear you correctly translate this page."

He did his best. But the ink was faded, the vellum discolored, and his nose still itched. 

Irons sighed in exasperation. "I see I will have to review your language curriculum with Professor Heinkel."

He shrank into the folds of his suit. But instead of punishing him, Irons replaced the manuscript in its case.

"We will continue your instruction another time. Do you have any questions?"

He had a most important question. "Sir, why don't we have a Christmas tree?"

Irons stared at him. "What does a Christmas tree have to do with twelfth century Italian manuscripts?" Direly. "Who has been inculcating you with visions of sugar plums? I have taken great pains to insulate you from such nonsense."

"I wasn't inculcated. I see Christmas trees when we go to the firing range. They're inescapable."

"I could make it very easy for you to escape them. I could send you to a place where there are no trees at all, let alone ones with lights and decorations."

"Yes, sir."

"Are you also going to ask me why I do not leave milk and cookies for Santa?"

"No, sir. I know there's no Santa Claus." He risked an inquiring glance. "Is there?"

"I believe I will let you ascertain that for yourself." Irons rose. "You have my permission to stay up tonight and wait for him to come down the chimney in the Great Room. You may call me at my hotel in the morning with the results."

Hotel? "Won't you be here for Christmas, sir?"

"No. I will be leaving for Washington directly from the office. And you may now return to your lessons." With sardonic humor. "Give my regards to Father Christmas when you see him."

This could not be. He had expected Irons to be here tomorrow. As he left the library, he saw one of the drivers descending the stairs with suitcases, followed by Irons' personal assistant with Irons' briefcase. The sight sent him racing up two flights of stairs to his rooms. There, hidden inside his drawing table, was his latest masterpiece, the product of two boxes of crayons and hours of earnest endeavor. He smoothed out the corners and the elbow prints as best he could, then took out a piece of red foil he had scavenged from a floral display delivered to one of Irons' parties. The foil wasn't quite the right size, but he was able to mostly wrap the picture, using up a roll of tape appropriated from the security office to make sure it stayed wrapped. Then, he hurried back down to the library.

The room was empty. He leaned over the railing, but Irons was not below in the Great Room. There was only one of the maids clearing away the coffee things.

"Where's Mr. Irons?"

"He just left."

He clattered down the stairs and out into the hall. "Sir?"

The hall too was empty. Heedless of Irons' prohibition of running inside the house, he sped past the portraits of the Wielders to the entrance hall, calling "Sir? Sir!" 

Braithwaite, Irons' valet, was just closing the big doors. He shoved past Braithwaite and ran out onto the steps. "Sir?"

The limousine pulled away and started down the drive.

"Sir? Please wait!"

The car did not stop.

He stood there clutching the red foil package, and watched the limousine drive through the security gates. Behind him, he heard Braithwaite shout at him to come inside; when he did not respond, Braithwaite slammed the door behind him. He began to shiver, for although there was no snow, the day was miserably cold, with fitful bursts of rain. He did not care. He kept watching the drive, thinking that maybe Irons had forgotten something. Maybe if he stood there long enough, Irons would come back....

Parsons' voice jolted him back to reality. "What are you doing?"

"Nothing."

"Well, go do nothing inside. You know you're not allowed out here until your lessons are over."

"I don't care!"

"I don't either, but Irons does."

"He left."

"Irons doesn't have to be here to know what goes on. You've found that out more than once, haven't you?"

He wouldn't answer.

Parsons eyed the red foil. "What's that?"

"Nothing." But then he heard himself say, "I was going to give it to Mr. Irons."

"I though Irons didn't allow Christmas presents."

"It's not a Christmas present!"

"Whatever it is, it's going to get wet if you keep standing out here." Parsons unlocked the door and held it open. "Come on. I don't have all bloody day."

Parsons was right. The foil was getting wet.

He hated Parsons.

He ducked under Parsons' arm and back into the entrance hall, then pulled the massive door shut behind him. And shot home the bolts so that Parsons could not follow. As the doorknob rattled impotently, he returned to the Great Room. There, he dried the package on the crimson drapes that hid Elizabeth Bronte, then carefully placed it on the table next to Irons' chair. Irons would find it upon returning from Washington. It would be a few days after Christmas, but that did not matter. He smoothed the foil once more.

It did matter.

He didn't know exactly why. He didn't exactly understand Christmas. His tutors had gone over its history, outlining how a Druidic celebration had been suborned by Christianity, and then further distorted by commercial interests. Christmas itself had little if any basis in actual fact. He knew that. What he did not understand was why the world outside the security gates persisted in celebrating it.

Or why he wanted to be part of it.

He wanted...he wanted a Christmas tree. One just like the tree in the King Kullen parking lot, with lots of multicolored lights and a star on top. He had seen it when they stopped at King Kullen on the way back from the firing range, and it had filled his thoughts ever since. If he could only have a tree, then he too could be part of Christmas. 

Parsons stomped into the Great Room. "What are you doing in here? You're supposed to be with Professor Heinkel."

"I don't have to go to any lessons today on account of it's Christmas."

"It isn't Christmas until tomorrow, and Heinkel's already called twice wanting to know where you are. You'd better get up there before you get in trouble."

"I don't care!"

"Move. Or I'll carry you like a sack of bloody potatoes."

It wouldn't be the first time. He glared defiantly at Parsons.

With equal determination, Parsons tucked his radio in his jacket, and took a step forward.

He darted up the library stairs. At the top, he hurled a first edition of Baudelaire over the railing.

"Nice try," Parsons mocked. "You missed."

A first edition of Rimbaud did not.

With Parsons' oath echoing in his ears, he fled through the library door to the safety of the schoolroom. There he found Professor Heinkel drumming impatiently on his copy of Caesar's Gallic War.

"Mr. Irons is displeased with your level of academic proficiency. He has instructed me to increase both your classroom drill and your outside work until you can meet his expectations." Waspishly. "Could you not have even attempted to remember the dative case?"

"The light was bad. I could hardly see the page." He sat on one foot and swung the other against the chair.

"Mr. Irons seemed to think you could see the page quite well. And how many time have I told you not to kick your chair?"

"You mean since yesterday?"

For some reason, that only served to further irritate the professor. "You will do double the usual assignments! And if you do not complete them satisfactorily, I will report you to Mr. Irons!"

He hated Latin. He hated all his classes. And he hated Professor Heinkel. It was Christmas. He shouldn't have to do any assignments, let alone extra ones. He decided to get his revenge.

He decided to be Godzilla.

He folded his gloved hands, lowered his brows, and stared up at the professor with unwavering intensity. He had practiced that look before mirrors ever since he had seen Godzilla vs. Something Big and Stupid. It was the best movie he had ever seen. It was also the only movie he had ever seen, and judging from Irons' reaction afterwards, the only one he was ever likely to see, but he was content. Nothing could be as good as Godzilla vs. Something Big and Stupid. And nothing was as powerful as Godzilla, maybe not even the Witchblade.

When he was Godzilla, his instructors became very nervous.

Professor Heinkel was no exception. After taking out a handkerchief and blowing his nose several times, the Professor told him, "Take out your Bellum Gallicum and turn to page seventy-nine."

He did not move. Or blink.

"What is it now?"

"I have a question."

"Yes?" The Professor seized that with desperate hope. "What is it?"

He lowered his brows still further. "Did Julius Caesar have a Christmas tree?"

It may have been the stare. Or a belated dose of holiday spirit. But Professor Heinkel forgot to increase his usual assignment and ended the class twenty minutes early, claiming he wasn't feeling well. Heartened by this, he decided to be Godzilla for the rest of his classes as well. After developing a debilitating twitch, Mr. Honiker defended himself by reading aloud from Moby Dick, leaving him free to draw pictures of Honiker on the deck of a whaler as it was attacked by Godzilla and Harriet Beecher Stowe. Professor Dedham made the mistake of trying to outstare him; when Dedham conceded defeat. he escaped from that class and the threatened review of the Hohenzollern dynasty, and was free for the day.

It seemed that Irons' staff was free for the day as well. When he came down from the schoolroom, he found the maids leaving, and Braithwaite with his coat on.

"Irma is fixing you a tray. I'll have her take it up to your rooms before she leaves. You are to stay in them and not go wandering around the house. The security staff has been shortened by the holiday, and by Mr. Irons' change of plans. They will have enough to do without you accidentally setting off alarms."

He never set off an alarm unless he intended to. "Mr. Irons said I could stay up and wait for Santa Claus."

Braithwaite's look told clearly what the valet thought of his chances with jolly old St.

Nick. "Very well, I'll have Irma bring your tray to the Great Room. But under no circumstances are you to spill anything, or even touch anything, or you will answer to Mr. Irons when he returns." Braithwaite left.

Irons was gone. The day staff was gone, as were his instructors. And his official minder was on leave until January. But the treasures inside the mansion insured that there would be no escape for the security personnel. Parsons was still here. Of course, Parsons was his enemy. He hated Parsons.

He went to see what Parsons was doing.

Parsons was in the staff quarters stuffing items into an overnight bag. When he saw him, Parsons growled,

"Don't even try being Godzilla with me. You will not win."

"Godzilla's bigger and more powerful than anything on Earth."

"Right. But you're not anything like Godzilla yet. You're more like Kermit the Frog."

He didn't know who Kermit the Frog was. "Did he fight Godzilla?"

"Yeah. In the fifth movie. Now piss off. I've got to catch up with Irons at the airport."

For some reason, an empty spot was forming inside his chest. "Aren't you going to be here for Christmas?"

"I was. Then Sorenson did something to piss off Irons. So he's being sent back here, and I'm off to Washington. Bloody stupid prick." Parsons shrugged into his shoulder holster. "I hate holidays."

He was curious. "Even Christmas?"

"Especially Christmas."

"Did you have a Christmas tree when you were a kid?"

"My Mum pinched one once from the fish and chips shop where she worked. Christmas Day, we all sat there with it stinking of fry oil, and with her and my Gran fighting over how to incinerate the bloody Christmas goose. Meanwhile, both Mum and her boyfriend were getting more and more drunk, and my Gran and her boyfriend the same, and during it all my sister kept playing her bloody Herman's Hermits records." Sourly. "I still can't think of Christmas without hearing Peter bloody Noone."

He wasn't interested in fry oil. "But did it have lights? And a star on top?"

Parsons looked at him. Then, to his surprise, Parsons told him in quite a different voice, "Yes. It had lights. They smelled like fish once they'd been on a while, but you got used to it. And it had a star. I guess it was nice enough." Parsons disappeared into his bedroom.

He was wondering if Peter Bloody Noone had also fought Godzilla when Parsons reappeared and tossed him something.

"Here. Merry Christmas." Then Parsons shoved him out the door.

Hostess cupcakes. Choculate ones. A strange, warm feeling flooded into the emptiness as he carried them carefully back to the Great Room. Parsons was his enemy. But Parsons had given him a Christmas present--the first one he had ever received. He set the Hostess cupcakes next to the tray left him by Irma, then lifted the silver cover to see what the staff had inflicted on him. The food looked suspiciously like the dinner he had refused to eat last night. It was no more than he expected. The staff was taking advantage of Irons' absence to avenge all the tricks played on them. He replaced the lid.

With Irons gone, the staff had let the fire die down and extinguished the banks of candles. The whole room seemed to be extinguishing, fading away without Irons' all-pervasive presence. The emptiness inside him returned. He left the room and wandered along the gallery, pausing before each portrait. The faces on the canvases were as cold and silent as Irons' mansion. He looked up at the Wielders, and wondered who they had really been, and what they had really looked like. And if any of them had ever had a Christmas tree.

The emptiness grew. He returned to the Great Room and repositioned the red foil package more prominently on the table. The whole time he had worked on his masterpiece, he had imagined giving it to Irons on Christmas Day. Irons would be surprised, and then Irons would have it framed and hung on the wall for everyone to see. Irons never praised any of his drawings, but he knew this one could not fail to please him. All week, he had counted the days until Christmas, when he could finally bring it downstairs and give it to Irons. But Irons would not be here.

No one would be here.

He stood next to Irons' chair. Even without Irons, it held an aura of immeasurable power, as though its very wood had been imbued by Irons' presence. Tentatively, he traced the carvings with one gloved finger, half-expecting a bolt of wrath to strike him from the heavens. When nothing came to punish him, he climbed up into the chair and wrapped his arms tightly around his knees. He closed his eyes, and let the feeling of Irons' presence envelope him. And pretended that Irons was actually here, and that they were going to have Christmas. 

And that if he opened his eyes, he would see the room lit by a tree covered with lights, and garlands, and a star on top.

He was still curled up in Irons' chair when the overhead lights went on, and Sorenson came into the room.

"What are you doing here? You're supposed to be in your rooms."

Hastily, he slid out of the chair. "Mr. Irons said I could stay up."

"Irons didn't say anything about it to me."

"That's because you pissed him off! You weren't supposed to be here. It was supposed to be Parsons."

"Parsons is sitting on the runway with Irons, waiting to see which way that storm's going to turn. Seems air traffic's backed up all down the coast, and they aren't letting anything off the ground." Sorenson snickered. "I guess even Irons can't control the weather."

He wasn't as sure of that as Sorenson.

"Parsons may put up with your crap, but I'm not going to. Get back up to your rooms so I can set the alarms."

"My dinner's down here."

"Are you going to eat it?"

"No."

"Then it doesn't matter where it is. It only matters where you are, and that's going to be in your rooms until eight o'clock tomorrow morning. Now get moving."

He grabbed his Hostess cupcakes and started up the library stairs. If it were Parsons, he would have continued to argue. Parsons was his enemy. But Parsons was a true and honorable warrior, with medals and a pair of black combat boots. It was no shame to be carried like a sack of potatoes by Parsons. But he would go to his rooms rather than suffer that indignity from Sorenson. Sorenson was not honorable enough to be his enemy.

He leaned out over the library railing. "Bloody stupid prick!"

He kept repeating that as he stomped up the stairs. He was mad. Irons has said he could stay up. And it was Christmas. Once in his rooms, he stuck chewing gum over the lens of one security camera, and disabled the other by hitting it with Benjie. He wasn't supposed to touch the cameras, but he didn't care.

He was mad.

The intercom buzzed; he ignored it. It would only be Sorenson telling him to stop monkeying around with the cameras. He put on his lace-up boots, the ones that looked like Parsons', and tucked his black school pants into the tops just like they did in the SAS. Next, he donned his long black wool dress coat because it didn't squish like his parka, followed by the black watch cap he had borrowed from Parsons' foot locker. He put his Hostess cupcakes carefully in one pocket of the coat, and the set of master keys he had removed from the security office in the other. Then he went downstairs.

In the span of minutes, he set off the motion detectors in the blue bedroom, the game room, and the conservatory; triggered the alarms on the service entrance; set off the fire alarms in the kitchen; and thumped the hoods of every vehicle parked in the garages to create an ear-splitting cacophony of car alarms. When he was done, he wheeled his bicycle into the rhododendron bushes that flanked the mansion, and waited.

He could hear Sorenson and the other security guard shouting frantically. In another moment, the third man, who had been stationed at the gates, ran past with his radio spitting out Sorenson in stereo. Once the third man was safely inside the house, he wheeled his bike out of the rhododendrons and pedaled down the drive to the gatehouse. There, he hit a key on the radio console and shouted into the microphone.

"Bloody stupid prick!"

He punched in the test code that opened and shut the gates, and rode through them as the car alarms still howled. The gates closed behind him.

He pulled the watch cap more firmly down upon his head, and set off on his own to find Christmas.

The road ran past other estates, none as grand as Irons', but each isolated behind walls and security gates. He rode by them without stopping. No one there would know anything about Christmas. Past these were the grounds of the country club, and then the hill that marked the furthest point he had even gone on his own. He did not hesitate. Fueled by a combination of anger and audacity, he pedaled up it furiously, not stopping until he crested the top. 

The road divided. The right fork went through a wooded area, then past businesses and blocks of apartments until it reached the expressway. The left fork led through winding streets to King Kullen, and then ultimately to the gun club. Both roads looked completely different than they did from a car, and he was unable to decide which he should take. 

He looked up at the sky.

To his surprise, a single star shone through a gap in the clouds. It seemed to hang directly over his head, bigger and brighter than any star he could remember. A thrill of wonder shot through him.

That's Polaris, he thought. But another name came to him out of memory, a name from a childhood tale forgotten until now. 

It was the Wishing Star.

He knew magic. What Irons had taught him of it, anyway. Irons had told him the most important part of any magic was intent. You had to be absolutely certain of what you wanted, and why, or the magic could go terribly wrong. It was the same with wishes. You had to think very carefully before you made one, or the powers that granted them might trick you and give you the farthest thing from what you really wanted. So he thought very hard. Then looked up at the star once more and spoke the magic words.

"Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight. I wish I may, I wish I might, have the wish I wish tonight."

Intent. That was the key. Thus, he did not wish for a Christmas tree, or more choculate cupcakes, or even a visit from Santa Claus.

He wished for snow.

The wish made, he got back on his bicycle and took the left-hand road,

The houses were different here. They were set on narrow plots close to the road, and they were much smaller than those belonging to Irons and his circle. Most were bedecked with lights that outlined their eaves and porches, and even the surrounding bushes and trees. He pedaled slowly along the sidewalk, enthralled by the colors and the decorations. These houses felt like Christmas. But none of the trees had a star on top like the one at King Kullen. A tree could not be a Christmas tree without a star. So he kept searching, going from block to block, a small dark figure silhouetted against the lights. Occasionally a car passed, but he saw no one else on the street. Everyone seemed to be inside the houses, the lit windows and the snatches of music and voices telling of people celebrating Christmas. 

One house in particular caught his curiosity. It had a big front window surrounded by glowing red lights, and an illuminated candy cane on the door. There were no draperies covering the inside of the window, and he could see part of a decorated tree and the passing shadows of people. Several cars were parked bumper to bumper in the driveway; he propped his bicycle against one of them, and wriggled through the bushes to the front window. He placed one foot on a tangle of branches, and pulled himself up. And found himself looking into a room furnished with a sofa and chairs, and a fireplace crested with fluffy white stuff along the top of the mantle. The tree stood next to the fireplace. It bristled with ornaments and lights, and was topped by a glass spire. There were presents mounded under the tree, and as he peered through the window, a woman came and shooed away the two children who had been examining them.

He felt a twinge of superiority. Irons would never have allowed anyone to put fluffy white stuff on the fireplace in the Great Room. Or stockings. And the tree wasn't nearly as big as the one in the King Kullen parking lot. It didn't even have a star. It wasn't a proper Christmas tree.

The woman and the children disappeared through an archway into another room. He fought his way out of the bushes and went around the side of the house to see what they were doing. The windows here were too high, but he dumped the plastic garbage bags out of a trash container, and overturned it so he could stand on it. He peered through a gap in the curtains.

They were having dinner. There was a long table covered with all sorts of dishes, and everyone was passing them back and forth, and drinking wine, and talking. Bits of conversation and laughter carried through the window glass. There were at least twelve people crowded around the table, parents, grandparents, and children, many with similar features. He wondered what it would be like to eat with so many others. When he dined with Irons, it was only the two of them, and he was not allowed to speak unless Irons asked him a question. But the children at the table were chattering freely, and no one seemed to be angry with them. One boy, smaller than the rest, was sitting on the lap of a man who appeared to be his father. The man was feeding him from his own plate. He watched the man smile down at his son, and felt an ache start just under his breastbone.

He steeled himself against it. It was only hunger. A warrior did not give in to such weakness. Besides, he had his Hostess cupcakes. He jumped down from the barrel and retrieved his bicycle. But as he pedaled away, the images lingered, swirling inside his head in a collage of lights and evergreen branches and brightly wrapped presents. And the man holding the little boy as the little boy laughed....

He thought he remembered Irons holding him. Himself, not the Ian before him. He must have been very small, for he could recall short pants and socks, and how his legs had stuck straight out over Irons' knees. It had been in the Great Room, for he could remember the fire, and the wolfhounds stretched before it. Maybe it had been Christmas. And maybe there had been a tree, although he could not recall one.

Or maybe it had been the other Ian after all.

He walked his bicycle along the sidewalk, his coat collar turned up against the rising wind. There ought to be snow. The ground should be covered in white crystals to reflect the colored lights, and to properly frost the rooftops and branches. He had wished for snow with all his heart, but all the wind brought was a few errant drops of rain. He looked up at the sky again, but there were only clouds. He could not find the star. 

He began to wonder if he would ever be part of Christmas.

He was wheeling his bicycle around a puddle in the road when he saw the tree.

It stood in the center of a small triangular park formed by the intersection of three streets, a tall spruce laden with lights and topped by a glowing star. A sign at the edge of the little park proclaimed the tree to be the gift of a merchants' association, but he paid the sign no heed. It was his Christmas tree. He sat on a bench facing the tree and drank in the scent, and the glow of the lights. And the star. It looked like the Wishing Star.

Maybe it would finally snow.

He snuggled deeper into his dress coat, and waited. To feel different, to feel...to feel like Christmas. To feel like the people he had seen through the dining room windows, warm, and happy, and part of something he could not seem to reach. He stared up at the tree, but all he felt was the ache inside his chest. He did not understand. He had a tree. And he had a Christmas present. But he still did not have Christmas.

Maybe it was the way Irons had made him. Irons had told him he was not like other boys. He had been touched by the Witchblade. Maybe the Witchblade barred him from Christmas as it barred him from so many other things in the world outside Irons' gates. Or maybe this wasn't the right tree after all, even if it did have a star. Maybe that was why he couldn't feel Christmas.

Or maybe it was because you weren't supposed to spend Christmas alone.

Something warm started running down his cheeks.

He was trying to make the tears stop when the sound of a car engine made him look up. 

Other cars had passed the small park, but he had ignored them as they had ignored him. This sound was different. It was far more powerful, and far more familiar. He spun around on the bench.

A long white limousine was gliding up to the curb. It stopped, and a large, broad-shouldered man got out and scanned the surroundings, one hand inside his coat.

Parsons.

Apparently satisfied, Parsons opened the door, and a second figure emerged. 

Irons strode toward him.

Irons was angry. He could read that anger in every elegantly groomed line. He gripped the seat of the bench.

The very casualness of Irons' tone was like a blow across his face. "It would have been better if, once you had decided to run, you had kept on running."

He tried to defend himself. "I wasn't running away, sir. I just wanted to see a Christmas tree." When he saw no response from Irons, he blurted, "You said I could stay up!"

Something rippled across those icy features. Irons grabbed him by the chin, forcing his head up.

He closed his eyes, and waited for the blow.

Irons' voice was still casual. "Why were you crying?"

"It didn't work." He could feel the tears starting again. "I thought if I could find a tree, then I could feel what Christmas is like. But it didn't work."

Irons released him. "Get into the car."

He trailed after Irons as Parsons put his bicycle into the limousine's trunk. As the car started moving again, he sat on the seat across from Irons, his gloved hands folded and his eyes fixed on the toes of his boots. Parsons sat next to him, stone-faced and unmoving. Irons sipped a glass of wine, apparently disinterested in them, but he knew Irons was not done with him.

Irons spoke. "I received a disturbing report from Sorenson as we were waiting for takeoff clearance. It seems half the alarms at the house were set off. He was convinced they were under siege from a gang of master thieves. Unfortunately for Sorenson, he called the local authorities before he called me."

He couldn't help speaking up. "Parsons wouldn't have called the police first."

"No?" Irons gave Parsons an inquiring look. "What would you have done, Parsons?"

Parsons answered with military precision. "Looked in the rhododendron bushes, sir. After that, behind the big blue Chinese vase."

"It would seem that, unlike Sorenson, you have studied your adversary." Irons set down his glass. "There will be consequences from this evening, Ian, for both you and Sorenson."

He stared once more at his boots. "Yes, sir."

"I have already had my travel plans disrupted by uncertain weather. Now, I am further inconvenienced by you."

"Yes, sir. I'm sorry, sir." He made one last attempt to explain. "I only wanted to see a Christmas tree."

He heard Irons say something to the driver, but he was too sunk in misery to pay attention. It wasn't until the limousine made a turn, then began to pick up speed, that he realized they were not returning to the mansion. A jolt of alarm shot through him. Irons was sending him away. Irons had threatened to do so many times, but now it seemed Irons was making good that threat. He was going to be sent to where there were no trees at all, and where he would never see Irons again. He almost begged Irons not to do this, that he would be good from now on, and study his Latin faithfully. But he knew it would be to no avail. Irons despised weakness almost as much as disloyalty. And worst of all, Irons despised tears. He bit the inside of his lip to keep from showing any as the limousine sped through the night.

They seemed to drive forever. He knew that wasn't so, for Irons was still on a second glass of wine when the limousine slowed, then began the stop and go momentum that indicated city traffic. But his heart had been pounding for an eternity. He clenched his hands so hard they hurt. And waited for Irons to pronounce his fate.

The limousine stopped. This time it stayed stopped, and Parsons got out. He risked a glance at the windows, but all he could see was a vague jumble of lights.

Parsons returned. "All clear, sir."

Irons got out of the car. 

"Come, Ian."

Obediently, he stepped out onto the curb. The noise of the traffic surrounded him, but he could not look up. He kept his eyes fixed on the wet sidewalk until Irons commanded,

"Ian."

He raised his head.

What he saw drove away all thoughts of his disgrace.

"Oh, sir!"

It was the biggest tree in the world. It rose into the sky above Rockefeller Center, so high he almost wrenched his neck trying to see it all. And the lights! They blazed from every branch and twig, as though an entire galaxy had been pulled down from the heavens. And at the top, shining out over everyone, the passing cabs, and the bundled up spectators, and the rising walls of the skyscrapers, was the biggest and most beautiful star he had ever seen. 

"Oh, sir!" he breathed again. "What is it?"

Irons regarded him with self-satisfied amusement. "This is my Christmas tree."

Transfixed by the sight, he hardly felt his boots touch the pavement as they walked across the plaza. With Parsons following like a morose shadow, Irons told him about the tree, how it was seventy-seven feet high, and had been brought all the way from New Jersey via a special police escort. Thirty thousand lights covered it, enough to go around the entire Midtown Museum. And the star was the only one of its kind in the world. As they continued through the plaza, Irons pointed out all the buildings he owned around Rockefeller Center, and all the ones he intended to acquire. He hardly heard. There was only the tree, and the weight of Irons' hand on his shoulder. And the star.

Maybe his wish would come true after all.

All too soon, they returned to the limousine. As Parsons made a last check, Irons looked down at him and said,

"Now, Ian, you have seen a Christmas tree."

"Yes, sir." His eyes were still full of the lights. "Thank you, sir."

He took his seat across from Irons in the limousine. And heard Irons instruct the driver to return to the mansion. He relaxed as much as he ever relaxed around Irons. There would still be consequences for leaving the grounds. But this time at least, he would not be sent away. 

As the limousine threaded its way through the Manhattan streets, Irons questioned him about what had happened with Sorenson. He tried to answer as Parsons always did. In a clipped voice, he detailed how he had coordinated the alarms to cause maximum confusion for the security personnel, and then to make his escape. Irons made no comment, but there was a gleam that made him suspect Irons was not entirely displeased by his actions.

He wondered exactly what Sorenson had done to piss off Irons.

When they reached the mansion, a disgruntled Braithwaite was waiting to take Irons' briefcase as Irons emerged from the car. He suppressed a grin. Irons' unexpected return had summoned his staff back from their anticipated holiday.

He was following Irons into the house when Parsons' large form blocked his way.

Parsons was merciless. "The hat. Now."

He took off the watch cap and offered it to Parsons. "Merry Christmas."

Parsons snatched it from him. "You can't give people their own stuff for Christmas! That's not how it bloody works."

He was unfazed. As soon as Parsons was safely on shift, he would retrieve the cap from Parsons' foot locker. Just like all the other times.

When he entered the Great Room, he found Irons' amiable mood vanished. Lyndon, Irons' personal assistant, was on the phone with the Vorschlag weather service. The news was not good. The original prediction said the storm would only graze the Washington area, then dissipate over the Atlantic. Irons had expected to return to the airport and leave for Dulles, arriving shortly after midnight. But the storm had not followed the prediction. It had swung inland instead of out to sea, and was now bearing straight down on the Capitol, with its next target New York.

Irons was not going anywhere.

He curled into an unobtrusive knot on one of the couches as Irons fired off orders to reschedule meetings and to convey apologies to two oil ministers and a prince. Lyndon and Braithwaite appeared to receive the orders calmly, but he could read the nervousness beneath their aplomb. Both men were well aware of the capriciousness of Irons' temper. Not wanting to be a target either, he kept very still so that Irons would not notice him.

Irons noticed him.

"What are you doing here?"

"You said I could stay up," he reminded Irons.

For one precarious second, he thought he would touch off the threatened explosion. But Irons found another target--the tray left at one end of the long table.

"What is this?"

Braithwaite was now openly nervous. "The boy's dinner, sir."

Irons lifted the silver cover. "From tonight, or from the previous evening?" Without giving Braithwaite a chance to answer, Irons slammed down the lid. "Take it out of here."

As Braithwaite scurried to comply, Irons gave orders for a light supper. He spied a quick twitch at the corners of Parsons' mouth, and knew the same thought was going through Parsons' mind--Irma too would be laboring this Christmas Eve instead of celebrating.

Irons now regarded him. He expected to be sent to his rooms, but to his surprise, Irons added, "And bring some cocoa for the boy. He will be dining with me."

Hope gleamed. Maybe he would only lose his bicycle for a week or so.

He chanced a question. "Sir, does this mean you'll be here for Christmas?"

"I'm sure you heard me change my plans."

He was curious. "Can't you control the storm?"

"No." Irons reconsidered that. "Not yet, anyway."

"Could the Witchblade control the storm?"

Sharply. "Never presume to ask what the Witchblade can and cannot do."

"Yes, sir."

Irons settled into his chair. And noticed the red foil package on the table next to it. "What is this?"

Heart in his throat, he could not answer.

Irons picked up the package, and read the tag that was plastered to the foil with several layers of tape. "'To Mr. Irons'." A sharp glance. "Is this a Christmas present?"

"No, sir." Irons did not allow Christmas presents. "It's a 'because' present."

Irons raised an eyebrow. "A 'because' present? I was not aware that we celebrate 'because'."

"It's because I want to give it to you," he explained.

Irons held the package to the light. "It looks like I have been gifted with yet another artistic triumph from your drawing table." Irons did not seem to relish that prospect. Nonetheless, Irons tore away the foil. After a moment, Irons commented, "It is apparent that you will never be another Michelangelo."

He knew that. Nonetheless, he waited anxiously.

Irons looked at the picture more closely.

He saw Irons' expression change. Irons settled back in his chair, still studying the picture. "Come here, Ian."

He obeyed.

The candlelight softened the image of the woman, blurring the parts where he had drawn and redrawn her face. Irons was correct. He would never be Michelangelo. But he had done his best. He had managed to convey the brown hair that flowed across the woman's shoulders, and her short jacket. And the metallic gauntlet that covered her right hand and wrist, ending in a jagged-edged blade. He had meticulously drawn every detail of the gauntlet, even the reddish-orange stone on its back.

Irons was puzzling over something. "What is this?"

"It's a motorcycle."

"A motorcycle?"

He nodded. "There's always one there. I don't know why."

Irons' expression was unreadable. "Have you seen this woman?"

"Yes, sir. Sometimes she's in the dreams I get from the Witchblade. But I never really get to see her face." He dared another question. "Is she one of the wielders?"

"Perhaps." Irons rotated the picture to read the various symbols along the border. He had drawn them because they were in the dreams, though he did not understand them. They seemed to mean something to Irons, however.

Irons set the picture down. "This is quite an interesting picture. I believe I will keep it." Irons looked at him. "Thank you, Ian."

Happiness flooded through him. Irons liked his picture. He had not thought anything could be better than the tree, but this was, a hundredfold. Eagerly he offered, "I could draw you another one."

"I believe one 'because' present is quite enough."

He hid his disappointment. "Yes, sir."

Irons frowned. "What is that all down the back of your coat?"

It was mud from the bicycle. Irons made him take off the coat, then pull his pant legs out of his boot tops. He did not care. Irons had liked his picture. And Irons had a Christmas tree after all. The biggest tree in the whole world.

And it was almost midnight.

Irma appeared with the trays. Irons had her set them on a low table by the fire, which was once again roaring with its usual intensity. Irons dismissed both Irma and Parsons, and settled onto the small leather couch that flanked the hearth. 

He was allowed to sit cross-legged on a cushion across from Irons. 

"Do not spill your cocoa," Irons admonished.

They dined in silence, the only sounds the crackling of the fire, and the occasional clink of a fork against a plate. He did not mind the lack of conversation. He could sense the anger under Irons' apparent calm, like a stream flowing swiftly under the ice. Irons would not easily admit that anything could thwart his will, even the winter weather. So he was careful to set down his cocoa mug on his tray, not on the table, and to use his napkin. As he ate, he relived Irons' thanking him for the picture. Perhaps Irons wasn't even angry with him. Perhaps Sorenson would take the consequences, and he would not be punished at all.

Irons spoke. "I believe you will not see your bicycle again until sometime in late January."

He sighed. "Yes, sir."

"As for Sorenson..." Irons regarded a forkful of fish. "I do not think you will see him at all."

A jeweled clock that had once belonged to an Empress sat on one of the end tables. At midnight, it began to chime softly, and little figures of courtiers emerged from its face, bowing and circling each other. Irons got up, still holding his glass of wine, and peered into the fireplace.

"I do not see anyone coming down the chimney to visit us. Do you, Ian?"

"No, sir. I know there's no such thing as Santa Claus."

"Are you sure?"

He nodded. He was quite sure.

"You are not disappointed that you received no presents?"

"I got a present. Parsons gave me Hostess cupcakes. Choculate ones."

"It would seem that Parsons has been transformed by the holiday spirit. And it is chocolate, not 'choculate'."

"Yes, sir."

Irons returned to the fire. "Christmas, Ian, is a holiday for the ordinary masses, for those still tied to religion and social customs. I did not create you to be ordinary."

"No, sir." Surreptitiously, he moved his napkin to cover up the cocoa he had spilled.

"I created you to be outside common morality, to be an adherent of no code or creed except my will. As such, you have no need of Christmas." Irons sipped his wine. "I will excuse your curiosity. It was to be expected. You must interact with the common world if you are to be of any use to me. But I do not intend to indulge this curiosity indefinitely. Do you think you now know what Christmas feels like?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then we will have no need to repeat this adventure next year."

"No, sir. But can we still go and see the tree?"

Irons stared at him, exasperation mixing with something he could not read. After a few moments, Irons told him, "We will see." Irons resumed his seat on the couch, crossing one leg over the other. "You may sit with me if you like."

He slid the cushion around to the other side of the table. 

Sitting this close to the fire, he was warm all the way through, a rare state during the winter months in Irons' mansion. The warmth and the cocoa filled in the part of his chest that had ached, suffusing it with a strange, effervescent feeling. With some surprise, he realized what that feeling was.

It was Christmas.

Above him, he could feel Irons plotting the next moves and machinations in Irons' eternal chess game with fate. There was a bittersweet note coloring Irons' thoughts, as though something of Christmas had penetrated Irons' heart as well. He caught fleeting images of Elizabeth Bronte, and of himself, entwined with emotions that he knew Irons would never let him see. That knowledge evoked a sadness of his own, but he would not let it take away his feeling of Christmas. He closed his eyes, and thought of Christmas lights, and his bicycle ride, and his package of choculate cupcakes. And of tomorrow.

Tomorrow he would draw a picture of their Christmas tree.

Irons reached down and stroked his hair, tucking the errant strands behind his ears. "Even if there were a Santa Claus, you would have waited for him in vain. Any storm that is powerful enough to ground my jet would have overwhelmed one tiny sleigh."

He smiled at Irons' jest. Santa Claus was a myth. 

The Wishing Star, however, was quite real.

He risked a quick glance up at Irons.

You had to wish very carefully. And you had to have the right star. There had been a star on that first Christmas, too; he wondered if it was the same one. Irons had told him Christmas was not for him, but he had wished with all his heart and soul as he said the magic words. And it had worked. 

He had wished for snow. And he had gotten exactly what he had wished for.


End file.
